Free A Merry Little Christmas by Catherine Palmer Page A

not heard from her family in several weeks. “Do you roast goats in an underground pit in Ivory Coast, Dahlia? I can’t remember.”
    “Sometimes,” the girl mumbled.
    “I don’t understand how it could cook very well,” Mrs. Maddox spoke up. “Being buried like that. I thought fire needed oxygen to burn. Well, the main thing is that you have just won my son’s heart, Dr. Crane. Or may I call you Lara?”
    She wanted to shrink into her chair. “Lara, of course.”
    “Daniel and Benjamin were the first to tell us about you, and then Jeremiah started in. We had to hear all about moving the mattresses and the puppy and the painting project. You know, Jeremiah rarely mentions anyone except his business colleagues. But he has just talked himself half to death about you. Of course, I asked a lot of questions. The grandkids say I’m a busybody, but that’s really not true. In fact, Jeremiah told me you like to ask questions, too, Lara. I think that’s how to show you really care about someone.”
    “Yes, I believe it is.” Lara searched frantically for anything to stem the tide of Mrs. Maddox’s eager conversation. She focused on the students. “Perhaps some of you would like to share Christmas customs from your homelands. I’m sure our guest would enjoy that.”
    No sooner had Lara mentioned the coming holiday than Dahlia’s face crumpled. The young woman was excusing herself from the table, tears streaming, when Mrs. Maddox caught her hand.
    “My goodness, sweetheart, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Maddox dug a tissue out of her purse. “Are you homesick? I bet all of you are! I hadn’t thought about that, but you are a long way from your families, aren’t you?”
    “Dahlia cannot reach her parents by telephone or e-mail,” one of the young women told Mrs. Maddox. “She is quite worried.”
    “Can’t reach them?” The woman’s blue eyes softened as she slipped her arm around the student. “Well, I’m sure they’re all right. Africa is such a long way from here, and you know how telephone cables break, and satellites go astray and things like that. I don’t think you need to worry, honey. Here, take another tissue.”
    Lara watched as Mrs. Maddox slipped effortlessly into “mother” mode and took over the table exactly the way her son had taken over the Miss Ethel project. Within moments, the young African women were telling stories of their families at Christmastime, talking about boyfriends they had left behind, explaining political troubles and generally baring their hearts to the white-haired guest. Jeremiah’s mother listened with great interest, her face registering shock or sadness or joy as each student spoke. With Mrs. Maddox’s arm firmly around her shoulders, Dahlia stopped crying and even managed to eat a few bites from her plate. As conversation flowed, Lara took advantage of the opportunity to step away from the table.
    Wandering from group to group around the room, she paused to thank people for bringing such wonderful food and for taking time to join their fellow students at the I-House. She glanced at the Murayas’ table and noted that everyone was observing Tobias’s first taste of applesauce.
    This was working out exactly as it should, Lara realized. Never mind what Mrs. Maddox had said about her having won Jeremiah’s heart. That was simply a figure of speech from a doting mother. Clearly the man was ignoring Lara, but she felt grateful that her words of rejection had not turned him away from the Muraya family or the tradition of the international Thanksgiving feast.
    She took a clean plate and made her way to the dessert table, where confections of every kind were vanishing fast. Missing the traditions of her own parents who had retired in Arizona, Lara lifted a slice of Mrs. Maddox’s pecan pie from its pan.
    “Homemade crust,” Jeremiah said, his chest brushing against the back of her shoulder and his breath warming her ear. “My grandma taught me how to roll it